


Bitter

by emmiemac



Series: The Cleganes in Winterfell [11]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Book canon-based, F/M, Future Fic, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-09 11:42:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4347287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmiemac/pseuds/emmiemac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years after the wars have ended, Sandor and Sansa must return to the capitol. The new queen’s Hand has been waiting for them…<br/>Profanity. Tyrion POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: This story is entirely based on plot and characters from George R.R. Martin's **A Song of Ice and FIre**_

 

_Soft-spoken sweet-smelling Sansa, who loved silks, songs, chivalry and_

_tall gallant knights with handsome faces._

Tyrion, on Sansa Stark

****

** Bitter **

 

Tyrion’s legs ached.

_Sixty-two, sixty-three, sixty-four…_

The rain that had fallen most of the evening in King’s Landing was now a torrential Spring downpour and the wetness seemed to permeate even through the walls of the castle. He counted off the rungs in the damp darkness as he climbed. He was used to it now, having practiced the climb more than once, and he was certain that no one suspected. There were spymasters who brought whispers to the Hand of the queen. No one could imagine the little man would resort to such an effort and subterfuge as spying for himself.

_Seventy-seven, seventy-eight…_

It had been years now since he had returned to the Red Keep, or what had been left of it. The Tower of the Hand that he remembered had been long gone, brought down in what he had heard had been a spectacular wildfire-fueled blaze, thanks to his sister Cersei’s fear and revulsion of him.

_Did she think I was hiding within its walls? I well could have._

_Eighty-six, eighty-seven, eighty-eight…_

Though many parts of the old castle had needed re-building, Maegor’s Holdfast had mostly withstood the attack by dragons and it was here that the Northerners were staying as guests of the new princess despite Tyrion’s insistence that the family of the bride had traditionally always stayed in the Maidenvault.

_Though Traitor’s Walk would have been more appropriate for some, if not a black cell._

The other towers had been rebuilt over the old foundations and as much as possible according to the original design. Since no actual plans existed, it had to be rebuilt based on memories. The current queen’s Targaryen ancestor had built the Red Keep, and it was that castle she meant to claim as the last dragon.

_Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Roynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Shackles, and Mother of Dragons._

The Targaryen dynasty had reclaimed the Iron Throne; and Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, the Half-man, had returned as Hand. He had taken his revenge on those who had ridiculed him, insulted him, and cast him out and now Tyrion Lannister wielded the power he felt he deserved. They all bowed and showed respect to the Lord Hand and he liked it; he made it his business to know them, to know what they wanted and what they feared. Many even feared him.

But for how much longer?

_One-hundred-and-twelve, one-hundred-and-thirteen one-hundred-and-fourteen…_

Daenerys Targaryen had abdicated only the night before, after the wedding feast of her nephew Aegon, who now stood to inherit the Iron Throne. A young man; and rash despite his careful education, Tyrion thought: how else could he have chosen such an unsuitable bride?

 _The She-Wolf. The Wild Rose of the North._ Arya Stark was a rag-tag girl who ignored all the proscribed graces and courtesies of young women at court, who strode the keep in boots and breeches and practiced sword fighting in the Bravvosi style. Nothing was known of the years she went missing: had she hid in Flea Bottom, the Riverlands or the Vale? There had been rumours that she had fled to the Wall, but that turned out to be some other Northern girl. Some said she had stowed away to Essos, and worked as a serving girl, a cutpurse, and even a courtesan, it was whispered scandalously. _A traitor’s daughter,_ some still styled her. Tyrion knew what a farce Ned Stark’s confession had been, and how unjust and unwarranted his execution on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, but he kept that to himself. He found the less he gave voice to his opinions, the more forward others were with theirs: they mistook his silence with agreement, and talked some more. The Hand only smiled indulgently though he had learned long ago how ugly and menacing he could appear when he smiled. He had learned his lesson, but the scars remained and so he smiled anyway.

_Small wonder my smiles never reassured her. One-hundred-and-forty, one-hundred-and-forty-one…_

The little one had taken no more of a liking to him than her sister had; he was still a Lannister, even after all that had happened since then, since the girls had lived in the Red Keep under Robert’s rule. But nevertheless he had repeatedly inquired after her older sister in the North because he had needed to understand.

_Why?_

He knew, or thought he knew why she would not want to return to him. He had told her that he had not asked for the marriage; and she had been very clear that she did not want him, and hid herself away behind the façade of her cold courtesies.

_“Courtesy is a lady’s armor.”_

She had been a lady, certainly, though she had been but a child.

She was not a child any longer.

And she was no longer his wife, but the Hound’s.

_Are his scars any less menacing than mine? One-hundred and seventy-seven, one-hundred and seventy-eight…_

She had stared down at him guardedly when he had spoken to her, the first chance he had to speak to her alone since she and Clegane had been staying at the Red Keep almost a sennight previous; and her beautiful face held the same immobile expression she had worn since the moment she had arrived in King’s Landing, with her eyes fixed on some vapid middle distance, as though refusing to acknowledge where she was and what was happening around her.

_Just like when we were wed._

But the Hound was following in right behind her, to escort his lady wife to the wedding feast; and so he had wished them happiness though he doubted it heartily, for her anyway, most especially for her.

Rumors had circulated for years, in the North and throughout the South when it was revealed that Sansa Stark, once Lady Lannister and suspect in the regicide of King Joffrey, was living in the North as the Lady of Winterfell, ruling in the name of her youngest brother, and married to none other than the late King Joffrey’s former sworn shield turned deserter of the Kingsguard and the Battle of the Blackwater, Sandor Clegane. The Hound and his lady wife were now styled Lord and Lady Clegane, thanks to the Dragon Queen, Daenerys Stormborn. The rumors all varied widely but were all whispered avidly as truths:

_He had abducted her and raped her and she had needed to wed him so that she would not birth a bastard. She went in fear for her life and the lives of their children._

_He had needed to flee North to escape the consequences of deserting the Battle of the Blackwater and the sack of Saltpans. He was but a dog hiding amongst wolves. She had only wed him to keep him loyal, though who could truly trust a turncloak?_

_She had seduced him and used him to re-gain the North, just as she had used Lord Baelish to escape King’s Landing and hide in the Vale; just as she had meant to marry the heir to the Vale, first young Lord Arryn and then Harrold Hardyng. She was the daughter of a traitor, the wife of the Imp, murderess of young King Joffrey, the eldest surviving child of an exiled and disgraced house. She had left naught but dead or ruined men in her wake. He had been commanded to wed her because no other man would have her._

_She loved him, and he her. They had fought their way North to bring her home to Winterfell and to help liberate the North from the Ironborn, the Freys and the Boltons; and then the Others. They were heroes of the North, and of the realm. He had so impressed the young queen with his strength, his bravery and his humility that she had raised him to lordship, and his young brother had rewarded him with lands and a castle, albeit a ruined castle: the Bolton’s Dreadfort._

He received no inkling of clarification from the younger sister. She had no reason to like him either, he supposed; though he had tried. All his inquiries after his once-child bride were rebuffed with vague replies and, he thought, grudging courtesy: _Lady Clegane is well, my Lord Hand._ Her sister, and his former wife, was fine and the North was being rebuilt with her guidance. That was all the youngest Stark girl ever deigned to tell him. He had heard that the sisters had not been close as girls; they were far too different for that, and the little one had hated Clegane, so perhaps she truly had naught to tell him. Even when it was whispered that Lady Clegane was dying after she had birthed her third child, the girl had told them nothing; only that her sister had named her second boy for their brother Robb, the young King in the North.

 _Another child, another son for the Hound,_ he had thought then, _but may cost her life. Have the gods no mercy for the girl at all?_

At least no one could blame him for her misery now. For certainly she did not seem happy to him; no more than she had seemed happy when she was at court after her father’s death and then after they were forced to marry. She still had that air of distant sadness covered in cool courtesy. And Clegane, the Hound, still looked as fierce and mean as ever; though Tyrion noticed he did not drink as he once had, not even when wine and ale was brought forth in abundance; not even, his spies had told him, when they were only in the company of the other Northerners. The new princess, now queen-to-be, Lady Arya Stark had held a separate, small reception for the Northern lords and their retainers in the Queen’s Ballroom. Few of them had come South for her wedding; and though they claimed that it was time for Spring planting in the North, Tyrion suspected most were unwilling to risk sending sons or daughters of their houses to court where they might never return. Daenerys liked to keep members of every house at her court to ensure their loyalty; but only Arya Stark had been taken from the North and many had resented it. Other visiting lords and ladies had sniffed disdainfully that she had favored her family’s people with a separate feast, even though such favoritism had never been uncommon at court. The North had rebelled against the Iron Throne, not only once but twice if one counted the Robert’s Rebellion, and yet, in the eyes of many, they seemed not to be paying for it; but the queen had fought in the North with her dragons when she first came to Westeros and Sansa Stark...Sansa Clegane had been the first to bend the knee to the young Targaryen girl and her Northern lords had followed. They say the North remembers, and Daenerys Targaryen remembered the North.

And now a Northerner was to be their queen. At least one Stark girl seemed to be rising from the ashes of Winterfell. His spies reported that Aegon’s bride-to-be had welcomed the Northerners personally, had jested bawdily and even out-drank a few. She was known to drink ale at table in the Red Keep. She had sat next to Sansa at the head table during the feast, and the sisters could be seen to be talking closely and fervently after their meal. Clegane had sat next to his wife, then stood nearby as the sisters spoke.

 _He never lets her out of his sight_ , they had said. Was he protecting her, or was there another reason? Many men would be willing to marry the sister of the new queen, especially such a famous beauty. Sansa had always loved gallant, handsome knights, he remembered, and so surely Clegane would remember as well; why would she not prefer to have one now instead of a scarred old dog? Tyrion knew too well that she certainly would have preferred one to himself all those years ago.

_I’m not bitter; I just need to be certain._

He stretched out his foot and reached tentatively for the level ground to his left and found it. He moved carefully from the rungs of the ladder to the passageway within the walls of the keep. Another man would need to crouch or crawl but Tyrion could walk upright in the low, narrow space.

He wasn’t bitter, he assured himself again; but he had to see if his instincts were correct. He may not have wanted to marry the girl when his father commanded it of him, but he had wanted to see her safe, no matter how much she may have despised him. Had she? She had certainly believed that she had reason to be frightened of him; he supposed he could not really fault her for that; try though he might to convince her otherwise.

_I could be good to you._

But it had been no use. On their wedding night, he had offered to be kind, and had generously and sincerely pledged not to touch her until she wanted him, and she had told him that she would never want him. He knew that he was ugly, a dwarf, and a Lannister: he had never known which was worse in her eyes. No assurances on his part had ever breached the walls of her icy remoteness. She could never love or trust him. Yet somehow she had pledged herself to the Hound.

_Clegane?_

Tyrion had finally asked her why himself. He has been standing in the antechamber leading to the throne room where the feast would take place.  He had last seen her at another wedding feast. Joffrey’s wedding feast. She had been the most beautiful woman in the hall, he had told her, and he remembered how she had looked then: her hair a rich autumn auburn, her eyes a deep Tully blue; and the haunted vulnerability of her many griefs had only made her more beautiful.

But she had disappeared that night, leaving him to face a charge of regicide, abandoning him to his fate and showing how little he cared for him or their vows. _One flesh, one heart, one soul:_ a mockery considering that she had no choice in the matter. He had even thought her guilty of the crime, or at least complicit and therefore party to his having been condemned to death. But he had been wrong: she had only been a pawn, as she always had been. How then could she have known that he would be arrested and put on trial for Joff’s murder?

She had told Queen Daenerys what she had learned from Littlefinger after he had her spirited from Kings Landing: that Lord Baelish and Lady Olenna Tyrell had conspired to poison Joffrey so that the more pliant and sweet-natured Tommen could inherit the throne, and his brother’s Tyrell widow Margaery as queen. Still, she had intended to escape that night and so had left Tyrion without a thought to be tried and executed. Only by luck and with Jaime and Varys’ help had he escaped; much as she had with help from Dontos and Baelish, he remembered now. They had both fled their respective imprisonment, though in doing so she had fled him as well and he had not forgotten. But how had she gone from Baelish in the Vale to-

“Clegane? Truly, Sansa: did you needs settle for the _second_ ugliest Westerman in the Seven Kingdoms?”

She had not flinched at his question. He thought mayhaps if he disparaged himself as well as the Hound, she would answer him. With all the ravens that had been sent back and forth between Kings Landing and Winterfell as their marriage was invalidated and they were exonerated for complicity in Joffrey’s death, she had never mentioned Clegane once. He was to later discover that they had already been wed in their godswood before Daenerys came to Winterfell and that, shortly after their victory at the Dreadfort over the Boltons and Freys, she had borne him a child.

It had to have been against her will or out of duty: Sansa Stark giving herself willingly to a rough, ugly brute like Clegane? Granted the man was a fierce fighter and could protect her but surely some other lord or knight, some Northerner, could keep her just as safe? Surely living with Lannisters hadn’t frightened her so much that she needed to wed and bed a killer.

_At least she would not have needed her to kneel when he draped her in his cloak. Perhaps he should have jested about that too._

But the Hound had followed in right behind her and glared down at him with the old fierceness and hatred that Tyrion remembered from his days as Joff’s shield. And so Tyrion had dropped his eyes and told them that he hoped they were both happy. Then, as he walked away, he was very conscious of his waddling in their eyes.

_Did they both have to be so bloody tall?_

 


	2. Chapter 2

_She is nothing if not dutiful, this wife of mine._

Tyrion, on Sansa Stark

 

It reassured him later, to have seen Clegane follow her so closely.

_He acts more like her shield than her lord: is he her guardian or her gaoler? And she is still as reticent and formal as ever. It must be duty, that is all, just as it was with me._

He remembered how stiff she had been on his arm, at their table, when she climbed into their bed; she never let him forget that he was a Lannister. Clearly it was the same with the Hound.

_And the Hound is not like to treat her as gently as I tried to do. Duty…or worse, for her._

After leaving the rung of the ladder, he inched his way slowly and quietly down the dark narrow passageway; his stunted hand crept along the wall to his left until his fingers felt the latch. He lifted it gingerly so that it barely make a sound and slipped through the small door that was disguised by the intricate paneling of the large room and conveniently next to a very large wardrobe. A man of Tyrion’s size could stand next to it and see the entire chambers and never be seen unless someone came very close. He pressed himself into the side of the wardrobe and listened carefully. _Damn this rain._ Over the torrents he could hear only the crackling of the hearth fire and faint gasping sounds. His curiosity aroused, he stretched his neck carefully for a better look.

Sansa sat sobbing quietly on the edge of the bed. She was dressed in a lavender bedgown, sheer as gossamer, with her rich auburn hair loose in waves down her back and over her shoulders. The firelight played on her face, illuminating her creamy skin and casting shadows on the sensuous curves of her body beneath the wisp of fabric she wore. Tyrion almost gasped himself: the girl was lovelier than ever but not a girl any longer. She was a woman now, and quite the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Tyrion had seen many beautiful women: in brothels, in Essos, even the dragon queen herself was thought to be the most beautiful woman alive with her silver blonde hair and amethyst eyes. But Sansa had always had a breathtaking sadness about her and a vulnerability that had haunted him, a fragile core that he had wanted to touch somehow. _Cripples, bastards and broken things…Joff and Cersei had tried to break her; I wanted to help put her back together._ He had wanted to be the one to make her happy but he could not; nor was she happy now. How could she be happy…here in the Red Keep and in a bed she must share with Clegane?

She sniffled and sighed and took a deep quavering breath before dropping her head in her hands. Tyrion was mesmerized to see her crying: he had once wanted to comfort her, and yet even her tears she had kept from him. He almost stepped out of the darkness to go to her when he saw the Hound enter the chamber behind her.

He was naked as his name day: hugely tall and heavily muscled with visible scars on his strong body, and he was covered in a matt of dark hair that spread from his clavicle to his groin. Tyrion felt his eyes widen: Clegane’s cock, though flaccid, hung long and heavy and slapped against his thigh as he walked. His eyes in that ruined face were dark, his brow furrowed, his mouth a grim line. He could not imagine Clegane had much patience for a woman’s tears, and he approached her looking stern and determined.

 _Fuck her_ , Tyrion though with a sudden savagery. _Fuck her like the dog you are. Make her take that big cock in her mouth, in her cunt and even in her tight ass if that’s how you like it. Fuck her hard and let her spill all those tears she hoarded from me all those years ago._

He winced at his own thoughts which came to him strong and unbidden even as he anticipated watching her suffer the humiliation of pleasuring the Hound. He wanted to see him grab her hair, spread her limbs and pin her wrists to the featherbed. He wanted to see Sansa’s lovely body writhe, to hear her muffle her cries of pain and to see her weep bitter tears.

_I would not have hurt her, but she didn’t want me._

The big man moved closer to her by walking around the bed, and Tyrion was astonished when he bent to kneel before her and reached to take her hands away from her face and held them gently in his. He waited for her to speak.

“Forgive me, Sandor, but I could hold back no longer,” she whispered in her sweet voice.

“There’s nothing to forgive, little bird,” he rasped firmly. “I know how hard this is for you.”

 _Little bird?_ Tyrion suddenly remembered the riot of Kings Landing, and how the Hound had saved the girl from the angry crowds that had attacked the royal procession on their way back from seeing Myrcella off to Dorne.

_“The little bird is bleeding. Someone take her back to her cage and see to that cut.”_

He had protected her, even then…

Tyrion had thought it was loyalty to Joffrey: the Hound had been Kingsguard and the girl had been the king’s betrothed, no matter how badly Joff treated her. Now he wondered if it had been more.

_Surely not: a young and beautiful, high-born girl with the Hound would have been even more unthinkable then than it is now._

“I would do anything to spare you this sadness, girl: to be in this retched place with its bloody horrible memories for you. Tell me what I can do,” he prompted her.

Sansa reached her hands to his face now, and gazed sadly but lovingly into that hideously scarred visage.

“Oh, Sandor, I feel so helpless to watch my sister wed a prince and pledge herself to a life that means she will stay here forever in Kings Landing…in the Red Keep,” she shivered as she looked around her. “I cannot even bear to look around at the walls: they seem to want to close in on me. It just brings it all back, like a nightmare from which I cannot seem to wake.”

_Of course: her father’s death and her own torment as a hostage and Joffrey’s betrothed…before the Hound deserted and even before they wed her to me. How can the girl bear to be here at all? But Clegane was party to it. Why doesn’t she hate him too?_

“I know, little bird, and I’m sorry but …could be your sister knows her mind, and that she’ll be safe here. After all, she can swing a sword, and the lad’s not mean, or does not seem it… might be he cares for her: she was his own choice, wasn’t she? No bloody political plotting about it. She’s not the heir to Winterfell or the North…like you were.”

Sansa sniffled again but wiped her tears from her cheeks with her fingertips. “They do seem to care for each other but…they had not expected for him to sit the Iron Throne. Who could have imagined Daenerys abdicating when she fought so hard to regain her father’s throne?”

“Told you didn’t I? Two husbands and a paramour and she’s not dropped a single brat. Had to be barren; else she just didn’t want to marry some Westerosi lord like the lot’s been sniffing around her arse since she returned,” he jeered.

Tyrion knew that much to be true. Nearly every lord and house south of the Neck had offered either himself or one of his sons to the dragon queen, all to be rebuffed without interest. _The realm and my people need me,_ had ever been her excuse when Tyrion had tried to broach the subject of marriage and heirs with her. He should have seen it for himself.

“It’s your sister that surprised me, marrying the prince,” Clegane continued now. “Thought she had it soft for the Lord of Storms End, the one that was Robert’s bastard; and bugger me if I understand why the Tyrell girl agreed to take him. Thought she liked being a queen, that one, though they all up and died on her, didn’t they? Must have got bloody tedious, burying royal husbands; a big, strapping former blacksmith, that was what it took to finally live long enough to bed the girl after her wedding,” he jeered. “Fuck it: there’s lots ended up where they never expected after those bloody wars.”

_Least of all you, Hound._

“Least of all me, hm?” He leaned in to Sansa now, and she smiled faintly at him.

“I hope that you are happy, Sandor, I- I know how much we have asked of you in Winterfell-“

“Hush, little bird,” he put his finger to her pink lips. “You know my mind, know I wouldn’t rather be anywhere else in this world than with you and our pups. You’re what makes me happy.”

She closed her eyes and kissed the finger he still held to her lips. “My love,” she whispered. “Forgive me,” she said again.

“I told you there’s nothing to forgive, little bird,” he stood now and cupped her chin to have her look up at him. His cock was level with her mouth and Tyrion wondered if he meant to take advantage of that.

“But I…I haven’t been a true wife to you…since we left the North,” she flushed and bit her lip contritely now. “You have your rights as a husband, Sandor-“

The Hound sneered angrily now. “Rights? I have no _rights_ to you, little bird, none but what you chose to give me, and give willingly. I’ll have no duty from you, d’you hear me, girl? Especially in our bed. Fuck my rights.”

_Now why hadn’t I thought to say that?_

Sansa put her hand on the Hound’s wrist and caressed his skin. “I’m sorry, Sandor, I…I only worried that I have been so stricken that I have neglected you.” She looked around warily again. “It’s just that I can’t-“

 “Aye, little bird, the Red Keep don’t put me in mind for fucking either,” he rasped dryly. “Never thought I could feel that way around you, girl,” he looked down the length of her body now in the sheer bedgown. “Especially looking how you do now.”

To Tyrion’s surprise, Sansa giggled at his coarse language and flushed under his lustful gaze.

_She laughs and cries and lays with him willingly._

“I should have known that you would understand better than anyone, Sandor; and that there are unhappy memories for you in this place as well. Thank you, my love. I fear that because of those memories I shall never feel safe within these walls…though I know that I have your protection. Please know how grateful I am that you have stood by me.”

“I swore long ago that no one would ever hurt you, little bird.”

“Yes, but I feel much safer with you in our bed than standing outside my door.”

He snorted disdainfully and his fearsome scars wrinkled as he stretched his half-lip over his teeth. “And where would I want to be but next to you, girl? But it might be I’ve done more harm than good, little bird: there’s many who don’t like to see me with you, especially now you’re the queen’s sister, her _only_ sister.”

Sansa shook her head now. “I am your wife before I am the queen’s sister; and I will remain your wife.”

He sat down beside her on the bed now and she clutched his arm desperately.

“I won’t let anyone take you from me, Sandor. Arya won’t let them, and she won’t let Aegon let them. Besides, I’m not the heir or a maiden anymore-”

“You’re a Stark of Winterfell: sister to a high lord and now to the queen,” Clegane rasped firmly and then reached a huge hand to her face and cupped it gently, his face almost regretfully sad. “You’re still a good political match…and you’re beautiful…the most beautiful woman there is, little bird. Too good for the likes of me they’re all thinking: a dog, a deserter-“

Sansa sniffled again but she sat up straight and squared her shoulders. “I won’t. I won’t give you up, Sandor. They can’t make me marry against my will, not again.”

Now the Hound shook his head. “Even if you refuse to marry you might yet find yourself a widow: could be some mean to do for me,” he rasped darkly.

 _That’s likely exactly what some mean for you, Hound._ Tyrion had thought of it himself, even before they had reached the capitol. He had arranged to have him watched to learn his movements and habits. But the Hound had not left his wife’s side since they arrived, not even to train in the yard. There were no more winesinks, no more gambling and no more whores. The dog was not up to his old tricks, at least not here in the capitol.

“They wouldn’t,” Sansa protested vehemently, “they _can’t_! Oh gods, I wish we could leave,” Sansa leaned into him and he put a strong arm around her shoulders and drew her close to him. “I want to go home, Sandor; I thought we would be leaving today, until Daenerys abdicated; and I promised Arya…It would have been an insult if we had left before their coronation.”

He squeezed her tighter and Tyrion stared at the contrast of his dark, hairy arm and large, rough hand against Sansa’s slim, graceful back and the flimsy, light silk of her bedgown. She shifted slightly on the bed to turn closer to Clegane.

“I know, little bird, and I can keep us both safe until we leave; your Northerners are all watching out as well. We’ll stay until the coronation and go home to Winterfell the next morning. Manderly’s ships will be ready to sail at first light but if you want to leave that night-“

“Oh yes, Sandor, let us have everything brought to the ships while we are at the ceremony. We can pledge our fealty and leave straight away and…and…Oh, Sandor…I want to say we’ll never needs return again but how can I say that when Arya will be here?”

“Let her come to us, little bird: the North is more than half the bloody kingdom. Why should the queen not visit then?”

Sansa clutched her hands in her lap now and looked down at them: a once-familiar gesture whenever she was forced to share Tyrion’s company; but she raised her eyes to Clegane’s face again.

“I would love nothing more than to have Arya in Winterfell, in the North; but there is resentment, Sandor, and I would not bring more upon us. The North still needs time to be stronger. Though we have a newly restored Targaryen dynasty, many old hatreds remain. Many hold grudges against the Starks for the war, and even for the Rebellion.”

“Bugger that and bugger them. The North and the Starks defeated the Ironborn, the Freys, the Boltons and the bloody Others; they know they’d all be just a heard of dead, frozen slaves without us. They have a Stark queen now. Let them choke on their grudges; haven’t we cause to hold grudges as well?”

There was a pause before Sansa replied: “Mayhaps,” she spoke very softly, “but all of those people who hurt us are gone now, Sandor, and best forgotten.”

“The bloody Imp is still living,” Clegane grumbled, “and likely the one who most wants to see you free of me.”

“Sandor-“

“He’s Hand, and can play his politics by offering the new queen’s sister as a prize to some high lord-“

“You’re a lord now, Sandor,” she reminded him gently.

“The dead have no titles, little bird; I’ve seen how he looks at me…and how he looks at you,” the Hound rasped.  

Sansa sighed resignedly but twisted her hands together again in her lap. “He wished us well, he wished us happiness; I must believe that he means it. I see how much you hate each other; and I will not presume to tell you to feel differently. But he treated me kindly, at least more kindly than anyone in Kings Landing; he never hurt me and he left me a maid, Sandor; and he agreed to the annulment of our marriage without rancor: I cannot forget that…though he is a Lannister. I cannot forget that because it is what left me to be with you and you only, Sandor.”

The Hound raised his hand to her face again, caressing her cheek and jaw before leaning his forehead into hers.

“Aye,” he rasped softly, “but I don’t think he would’ve if he’d known what a gift he’d left for me…buggering idiot to have passed you up and lost you, little bird; thank your gods you shat on his head and flew off from this place when you did. Don’t know why your gods brought you to me but I’m the better man for it.”

Sansa reached her lithe arms around him and rested her head against his chest. Clegane put one large hand on her gleaming coppery hair and stroked it gently.

“ _I_ am better, and happier than I ever thought I could be with you,” Sansa told him. “You have made me so happy, my love, and given me everything I ever wanted: true love, my home, children and a family of my own…things I never would have had if I had never fled, if I had stayed here… “

 _…stayed here with me,_ Tyrion finished her thoughts for her.

“All the others, they only wanted my claim to Winterfell, and an heir to keep it in their line; after which I would have become…expendable. You are the only man who wanted _me_ , Sandor.”

“Then they’re all buggering idiots.”

_I wanted you, would have wanted you if you had let me hold and comfort you like he is doing._

Sansa gave a soft laugh again and hugged her Hound tighter.

“I miss the children so much, Sandor. I cannot wait to see them again. Little Robb will have grown so much, and Catya and Ned too; we’ve travelled so far and been gone so long that I fear they will have forgotten us.”

“Not a bloody chance, little bird: our pups love their lady mother. They’ll know you on sight.”

“And you as well, Sandor: they love their Papa so much. Catya adores you, you must know that.”

The Hound snorted and then quieted. “I adore her right back, little bird. I’ll be happy to see them all again soon; if only to see anyone who is buggering happy to see me,” he jested.

“Then we should depart directly from the coronation, Sandor; and set sail that night. There is no need to spend another night here, we can sleep on board-“

The Hound gave a twitch of a smile. “Aye, we can sleep and might be we’ll feel like fucking again…or at least try in between your constant retching.”

Sansa blushed. “I’m sorry for my seasickness, Sandor; it must be dreadful for you. And I must look a terrible fright.”

“Like all seven hells are trying to empty out your pretty mouth, little bird,” he laughed his harsh, barking laugh. “If I hadn’t known you, I’d have thought you were churning up your guts from the winesickness.”

“I would drink more wine if I thought it might help,” she replied softly, a gentle teasing in her voice.

“Too much wine don’t help, little bird. But we’ll be drinking plenty of it at White Harbor when we land. Lord Too-fat will want to feast us as he did before we left, and hear all about the wedding and coronation: the Northerners will want to celebrate having a queen of their own kind.”

Sansa thought a moment. “I expect it will be the same everywhere we stop,” she ventured uncertainly.

“Too bloody right, it will be: they wanted to show themselves off to you, little bird. The North is rising again, and it is all your doing, girl: you’ve been acting warden since the dragon queen named you, and before even, when you acted with the Greatjon and the Blackfish and the other Northern Lords. They want to you to see your how you’ve helped them,” he told her firmly. “Didn’t they show you their fields and livestock, their repaired holdfasts and their strong garrisons? You’re their Lady of Winterfell.”

Sansa shook her head slowly. “It was their own work, Sandor; I could not have done it without any of them. I could have done none of it without _you_.”

He kept stroking her hair. “Yes, you could and would have…but I’m bloody glad I was there with you, little bird.”

She looked up at him now and smiled. “And I’m very glad that you are still here with me, Sandor. We both know too well that we cannot make promises about what the future may hold…but being here has reminded me of how much I wish desperately, more than anything in this world, to spend all my days and nights with you…until my last day.”

The Hound twitched his queer half-smile. “It will take more than the bloody Imp and these puffed-up high-born lords to take me from you, little bird; I’ll not go down without a fight, might be I can promise you _that_ , at least.”

Sansa leaned into him again, and he wrapped his strong arms around her. Tyrion shrank away, and backed out through the tiny door into the cold and damp of the passageway as Lord and Lady Clegane languished in the warmth and comfort of each other’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many may recognize the line: "The dead have no titles." from the film "Elizabeth".


	3. Chapter 3

 

“ _I want her,_ he realized. _I want Winterfell, yes, but I want her as well. I want to comfort her. I want to hear her laugh. I want her to come to me willingly, to bring me her joys and her sorrows and her lust.”_

Tyrion, on Sansa Stark

 

Tyrion’s legs still ached. He shivered once, from cold.

He felt bitterly cold, despite the hearth fire which he had ordered the servants to pile higher with logs. The rain still poured and sometimes pounded on the roof of the Red Keep. The climbing and the damp had made his legs ache worse than when he rode and they grew cramped in the saddle. He preferred riding in a comfortable litter, with the curtains closed so he would not be recognized. He did not travel much anyway because his was life was in the capitol; and he had done enough travel for three lifetimes while he had trekked through Essos.

Besides, who was there to receive him anyway?

He sat in a great upholstered chair, his stunted legs barely reaching the edge where most men’s knees would bend over the end with their feet on the floor. A thick fur covered him from his waist to his feet; not much of a distance, he mocked himself now as he raised the goblet of fine Dornish wine to his mouth. But even that failed to warm him. He would take a wench to his bed tonight, as he did most nights, to warm him and rub his legs until he fell asleep; but he knew it was duty to them, a rewarding duty but a duty nevertheless.

_A Lannister always pays his debts._

The serving girls got extra coin or even a pretty bauble when they shared his bed. Some even laughed at his jokes though he knew it was mostly pretense: his wit was too sharp for serving wenches; only the bawdiest comments provoked true laughter from the coarser ones. The younger ones tittered nervously instead, knowing somehow that they were expected to laugh but were not sure why.

They were likely nervous about everything, he knew.

_Will he be made like other men? What will I needs do with him to please him?_

They would likely have preferred soldiers from the royal garrison, or their squires or…any other man, he knew. The soldiers would be rough and crude but at least that was something they understood; not someone like him. They didn’t think that he would want to please them as much as he wanted to be pleased, that he wanted them to actually like him. But no woman would show him affection but for duty or for gold; he had learned that long ago.

As if his stunted form were not enough to dismay them, there was always his missing nose and vicious facial scar. They would always see his deformity, his ugliness; it didn’t matter to them that he was clever and rich and generous and the Hand of the queen.

Hand to the queen, he pondered miserably, the queen who had just abdicated in favour of her nephew.

Tyrion wondered how long he would last at his post once the prince, Aegon, ascended to the throne alongside his new bride, Arya of House Stark. The young man would likely prefer to have his own younger men around him, though they would be untested. Certainly his new queen would not be expected to speak in Tyrion’s favour.

_A Stark bride to a prince. A Stark queen. Damn Robert, he got his wish after all but not how he had planned. The only Baratheons left were two he had sired out of wedlock: the one at Storms End and the girl in the Vale, the one who had wed Lothor Brune. If poor old Robert had known the future, he would never have rode for Wintefell and brought back Ned Stark and his daughters._

Why did Stark girls always mean a cold ostracism for him? He may as well be banished to the Wall if he could not have a part in ruling the Seven Kingdoms anymore. He would needs return to Casterly Rock and be a lord and mayhaps even Warden of the West. But he would have no lady, and no children to accompany him; and no family to visit since Jaime and his wife and children never left Tarth. It had been the dragon queen’s condition for letting the Kingslayer live.

 _Pups_ , Clegane had called his offspring with Sansa, fitting for the children of the man known as the Hound who had dogs on his sigil. What name would his children have?

_Imp. Halfman. Giant of Lannister._

What high lord would marry his daughter to such a man, even if he had twice been Hand? What girl would love such a man? That he had been Hand to one king and was now Hand to the queen mattered not: he was a man who had killed his own father with a crossbow bolt as he sat on the privy.

Tyrion could feel the itch in his finger for the trigger of a crossbow, could hear the _thrum_ of the bolt loosed. He felt and heard it whenever he thought of his father, Lord Tywin Lannister.

He had felt and heard it while watching Lord and Lady Clegane in their chamber.

He had watched them hold and comfort each other; had listened to them speak of their home and their children and of their love.

He wondered how would it be to loose a crossbow bolt on them as they sat together on their bed in the Red Keep; to see them run through like hares on a spit, stuck together in death. Their eyes would widen in shock, their jaws would hang slack and their bowels would empty as they died. And they would get their wish to be together until the end of their days, he reasoned archly.

Tyrion had seen to the deaths of his father and his sister. Lord Tywin and Cersei had unfairly blamed him for his mother’s death in childbed, condemned him for the murder of King Joffrey; and they had never praised his intelligence or his valor, even when he saved the city from Stannis and his Red Priestess who would have sacked King’s Landing after the Battle of the Blackwater and burned them all to honor the Red God. He had made them pay. Why should Sansa and Clegane, who also reviled him, be treated any differently? His lips twisted as he drank his wine.

No, the crossbow wouldn’t do: they would know it was him and he wasn’t like to get away with the same crime twice. And when he thought about it, he truly had no desire to harm Sansa. She had only been a frightened girl when they were wed, a pawn in the schemes of ambitious men, and surely the girl had suffered enough, mostly at the hands of his own family. When he was completely honest with himself, he could not blame her for not wanting him.

_But the Hound?_

Tyrion felt his mouth form a grim line as he thought about Clegane having everything he once wanted for himself: not just Sansa herself but her love, her smiles, her happiness and her sorrows, even her lust. She willingly shared his bed and gave him children, and wanted to grow old with him. The Hound had everything and still he resented Tyrion and tried to make Sansa resent him too. As Hand, he had done all he could to ensure the girl had what she wanted in nullifying their marriage he and had helped ensure that she and her and her family were restored to their rightful place. Even Sansa herself had said as much; though she had said it to Clegane, never to him. Was gratitude so much to ask? She certainly was grateful to Clegane for protecting her.

_If I could devise some reason for him to leave her side and the Keep…_

He could easily arrange an accident, a petty crime that would result in a tragic, senseless death: such things still happened in Kings Landing, especially in Flea Bottom or what was left of Flea Bottom. But what errand could take the man to Flea Bottom? Mayhaps he could be tempted instead to visit some better merchants: Sansa had loved pretty silks and worn stunning gowns once; but now she dressed in simply cut woolens with little ornamentation beside simple embroidery; the Northern men wore their leathers and woolens as well. Her only jewel was a necklace of dog and direwolf heads in plain gold and silver. She wore her hair in a long braid or held back by combs of carved horn. But she was wearing the nearly sheer silk bedgown her sister had gifted her: Tyrion knew because he had seen a copy of both the order and the final tally for payment to the seamstress. If the pageantry of the coronation should make her want more finery for herself or her children, or if Clegane thought she might want them then he might venture out to buy them for her.

Then no one could blame him, or even suspect him. He could have him killed, but he wondered what cutpurse or even cutthroat would risk his own life by attempting an attack on the Hound. He would have to offer a considerable sum as reward which would be less discreet; and the Hound might still survive and live. Sansa might decide to accompany him, and be hurt as well. Besides Clegane was one of the Northerners now and killing Northerners was what started the last war; come to think of it killing Northerners was what started the Rebellion as well. No, best let the Northerners, including Sansa _and_ Clegane, live and go back North where they belonged. Then he would never needs see or think of them again.

The other Northern girl was staying though; and because of that Tyrion would likely be sent back to the West where many undoubtedly felt where _he_ belonged.

 _They think you belong in a black cell, or worse,_ he told himself; _well they won’t see me get what they think I deserve._

They had blamed him for Joffrey’s cruel rule, then for his murder; his father and Cersei had blamed for the death of his mother and Penny had blamed him for her brother’s murder. Even Catelyn Stark had thought him guilty of trying to murder one of her younger sons. And he had deserved none of it. He should have been lauded for saving the city when Stannis attacked Kings Landing, then for bringing the rightful Targaryen ruler back to Westeros, and he had not gotten what he had deserved then. He had only been hated.

Instead he would get what he truly did deserve, and by rights: Casterly Rock. His father had given him Sansa and Winterfell because he had refused him Casterly Rock; and now he was getting what he had once wanted most, thwarting his sire yet again.

Tyrion drained his goblet and reached to fill it again from the flagon.

He remembered Sansa from their bedding, or their attempted bedding: how she stood shivering and naked, with gooseprickles on her young flesh. He remembered seeing her fear, and then her revulsion when he touched her. She had never wanted him and never would. He had deserved some credit for trying to protect her from Joffrey, but that had not been enough to for her to trust him. He had promised long ago not to hurt the Stark girl, and her happiness seemed to lie with Clegane so let her have him. Let her have the North and the cold and the ice and their ruined Dreadfort and their scratchy woolens and heavy furs and their tree gods. It was where she belonged; and certainly she deserved that.

Tyrion belonged in Casterly Rock; and he deserved that as well. So mayhaps all had ended the way it had been meant to end.

He raised his goblet now in salutation.

“To Lord and Lady Clegane,” he sounded out loud with a twist of his mouth.

_There, I’m not bitter._

He drank; but the wine still tasted sour.

…….

 

EPILOGUE

 

“A word, my Lady; if I may and it is not too much trouble…”

She held her hands together before her as she always had: it looked elegant and ladylike yet served to keep one at a respectful distance. Closed hands, closed heart. Even now at the coronation she wore the same simpler Northern style she had worn for the royal wedding and looked beautiful regardless.

“Lord Tyrion,” she acknowledged him in her gentle voice; but the wariness remained in her eyes.

“What do you want, Imp?” Clegane rasped harshly as he came to stand beside her.

“We have not had much opportunity to speak; perhaps that is as it should be since I have many responsibilities as Hand and you are representing both the North and your family here in Kings Landing….but please permit me to say that,” he drew a deep breath, “I can only imagine how difficult it has been for you to be here in the capitol again, and I wanted to say that you have behaved very bravely…as you always have, my Lady.” He blinked now and looked down.

_There, I said it; if that is not enough to make her feel safe and end any resentment…_

“I thank you, my Lord Hand,” Sansa replied, and then she smiled ever so faintly.

Tyrion nearly sucked in his breath; it seemed a weight had been lifted.

“Clegane,” he began, “I won’t tell you to keep her safe; you do that already.”

“Aye,” he told him coldly, “I do that already.”

_What did you expect form the Hound? A hearty camaraderie because we have both married the same woman?_

“Safe journey to you both,” Tyrion continued. “I suspect we shall not have reason to meet again.”

Sansa only stared at him again.

“Lady Clegane,” he bowed his head, “and my lord.” He tasted bile to address Clegane as a lord but he did it for Sansa; and for himself. _She’s not the only one can hide behind courtesy._

“Goodbye, Lord Tyrion,” Sansa acknowledged him. The Hound nodded curtly; he still looked fierce enough to kill him with a glance. But that look softened noticeably when he took Sansa by the elbow to lead her away from him. When she turned, she looked up at him with a trust and a gentle affection that tore at Tyrion: he wanted her to be happy, but he still hated that is should be with Clegane.

_Would I hate any other man as well? Would she have been happy with any other man but me?_

When he turned from watching them walk away, he was met by another old friend.

“If I’d known that girl would’a been happy marryin’ a rough sellsword, I’d’ve asked your old man to marry her to me. After all, I was a loyal Lannister man.”

“You have Lollys and Stokeworth….and you said it was bloody cold in the North when I offered to carve you out a piece of it,” Tyrion reminded him. _Another who went on to have married happiness and a family once he left me behind._

“She’d already run off and left you by then,” Bronn reminded him, “and they’d already married off the other Stark girl…or at least the one they had pretendin’ to be a Stark. Not that you had any kind’a luck with Stark girls,” the Lord of Stokeworth quipped.

“You’re still an insolent black-hearted rogue,” he told him churlishly.

“Aye, an’ it’s probably why we’re still friends.”

Tyrion smiled despite himself, and wondered if his grimace was as menacing as the Hound’s. _There’s my hearty camaraderie: a least one person knows and likes me for who I am._

“Yes, Bronn, I suppose it is. Come, let’s toast our new king and queen, shall we?”

“Or at least get drunk,” his friend deadpanned.

“Yes,” Tyrion replied archly, “that too.”

 

FINIS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A great big thanks to all who have left reviews: your comments are very thoughtful and insightful and really added to the experience of posting this short little story. Thank you!


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